Last Chapter: The final day of summer was spent in various ways - Harriet found a diary kept by Regulus Black (featuring teen Snape) and banished a boggart; Draco was plagued by memories of his dark time underground; Snape revisited old memories about Slytherin, Gryffindor, and a locket, and met a boggart himself. It was an experience he didn't care for in the least.

Remembering that weird, dark feeling that prickled through her whenever Dumbledore was around, Harriet didn't go seeking him out. After seeing her own dead body on the floor, she didn't feel like seeking anyone out. She decided she'd much rather hole up in Regulus' room and read more about his teenage drama with Snape.

But outside of Regulus' door, she stopped, hand hovering over the knob. Inside, someone was weeping.

Not again, she thought, stomach sinking like a rock.

She eased the door open a crack. Kreacher was curled into a ball on the floor, rocking slowly back and forth.

"Forgive Kreacher, Master Regulus, forgive Kreacher, Kreacher has failed. . ."

Her heart clenched like it was being wrapped in vines. She thought of Dobby, trying to hit himself when he disobeyed his masters, pledging his life to her. . . "Dobby's life should be worth nothing if Harriet Potter were to die and Dobby live."

For a moment, the urge to open the door and kneel down next to Kreacher, to tell him, "You did a great job," was so strong, she almost did it. But Kreacher hated her. He might magically have to obey her, but he wanted nothing to do with her.

She couldn't give him anything he needed.

Pulling the door shut without making any noise, she moved up the stairs to the bedroom she'd share with Ginny for one more night. It was still empty and silent, only one dim shaft of sickly orange London streetlight breaking the darkness. She struck a match for the lamp - Grimmauld Place didn't bloody have electricity - and sat on the edge of the sagging mattress to pull Regulus' diary out from her pocket. She didn't read it, only turned it over in her hands, this relic of the boy Kreacher had loved.

Then she got up, went to her trunk, and wrapped it in a jumper.

She let the lid fall shut with a thunk.

"You are sure you're all right, Severus?"

Severus stopped with at the top of the dungeon steps. Dumbledore stood at the foot of the grand staircase, the light from sconces set high in the walls falling across him like dollops of darkened sunlight. It was the first thing he'd said since they'd left Grimmauld Place - or maybe it wasn't. Severus had been. . . distracted.

"Perfectly, Headmaster."

Severus was an expert liar.

Dumbledore's watching gaze followed him down the stairs. The Headmaster was even, in fact, less trusting than the Dark Lord. He believed that fear and self-interest would keep you on his side until you weren't needed anymore. Dumbledore knew Severus better than that.

Well, he could just keep his little curiosity, because Severus wasn't telling him a thing.

The corpse on the floor of Black's dirty house had been just a figment of his imagination. He knew that. But that was the thing about boggarts: they challenged you to face the thing you couldn't.

He let himself into his rooms, cold and dark and empty. Tonight their isolation was hardly a comfort. He could hear Molly Weasley's sobs and see lying on the floor -

He dragged to the front of his mind the memory of Harriet shouldering him aside and summoning the stag. The silver-white light had turned all the shadows to mist. The stag's grave, opaque eyes had been somehow wise and compassionate, in that way of ancients.

In the bathroom he rifled through his cabinet, pushing aside clinking bottles until he found what he was looking for, and uncorked the vial of Dreamless Sleep.

He just needed to forget for a while.

Harriet couldn't decide the next morning whether she was pleased to be through with the business of trying to sleep or not. On the one hand, being awake meant she could dodge the nightmares that had tracked her all night like a determined hound. On the other hand, being awake meant being awake. As she tried and failed to drag on her jeans backwards, she wondered if this was like the cursed-half life known to Dark wizards who drank unicorn blood.

Downstairs was pandemonium. The twins, in bewitching their trunks to fly to the ground floor, had knocked Ginny down several flights of stairs, and Mrs. Weasley's shouts had stirred Mrs. Black into her usual pleasantries. At least all the noise had the benefit of making Harriet feel marginally more awake.

As she was passing the drawing-room, Sirius poked his head out and beckoned her in.

"Morning and all that," he said, shutting the door after her and muffling the irate shouting of two angry mothers. "So sad you have to leave this palace of mine, but at least we can say you'll know what you're missing."

Harriet grimaced. Despite all their cleaning, the place still looked like a halfway house for ghouls. One of the gargoyles carved into the fireplace was leering at them, and Mrs. Black's shrieks still thrummed through the house, like a radio playing in the distance.

"Will you be okay here?" she asked, frowning as she looked Sirius over. His clothes were wrinkled, as if he'd slept in them, and she didn't think he'd shaved in a few days. The stale tang of old cigarette smoke hung around him, too. Aunt Petunia would have crossed the street to avoid him.

One side of his mouth lifted in a funny sort of smile that was almost like something else. "I'll survive," he said. His voice was even a little hoarse. "Look - there's something I've got to tell you."

"Okay," she said, instead of I'm not going to like this, am I, because he was looking so, well, serious.

"We didn't tell you earlier because you weren't allowed to send letters but - when I took Malfoy Junior and your friend back home, I altered their memories."

"What?"

"I wish it hadn't been necessary, Holly-berry," he said grimly, "and that's the truth. You know I hate agreeing with bloody Snape on anything. But they couldn't know we'd been there, you and me."

Harriet struggled with her feelings. She wanted to shout, but she'd never shouted at Sirius before. It didn't feel right, somehow. In her silence he went on:

"Danger to Snape you know I could deal with," his face twisted with a sour smile, "but we can't jeopardize his spy schtick without jeopardizing you. Dumbledore and Remus - and Molly and, well, everybody, really - read me the riot act for going off with him, in case we'd been found out, but bollocks to that; I measured that risk and it balanced. But if the kids had talked - and they would've done - we'd have been up shit creek."

"How did you alter them?" she managed to say.

"They'll remember falling down into the catacombs, and they'll remember some bloke finding them and taking them back home. His face won't be too clear. The whole business with Dung and the locket and all that - you, me - they won't remember at all."

Harriet paced to the window, looking down on the street. The view of the dirty square was uninteresting, but it wasn't what she was really seeing. Part of her knew that Sirius was right; another part of her was still furious. Grown-ups were always deciding what people should and shouldn't know, lying, twisting ideas -

A clatter at the door, and Remus' voice, "Sirius, what are you doing? She needs to come now, we've been looking everywhere, they'll miss the train if they don't leave now-"

She turned from the window. Remus looked harrassed and none too pleased with Sirius, who'd shoved his hands in his pockets with a surly expression.

"Are you all ready, Harriet?" Remus asked, with a calm that sounded forced.

"Yeah," she said. "I'll come on, then."

Remus held the door for her. As she passed, Sirius touched her shoulder.

"You're the best and bravest person I know," he said gruffly. Then he looped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her to him, fast and fleeting. "Give 'em hell, Holly-berry."

He turned away. The last she saw of him, as she left the room, was his back as he stood at the window exactly where she had, looking down at the street.

At her first sight of Hermione, Harriet's heart jumped like an excited frog. Hermione was standing next to a brick pillar, already wearing her Hogwarts robes, Crookshanks clutched in her arms. Harriet didn't think she'd ever seen her looking so nervous, not even when they'd been facing the Sorting Hat that first night in the Great Hall. Her insides might have been hosting a frogs' grand ball.

Harriet pushed through the crowd, ignoring the waves and whispers and pointing fingers. Hermione spotted her when she was five dunderheads away and darted forward, her face breaking into an anxious smile, to throw her free arm around Harriet's neck.

"I made it!" she whispered.

"Knew you would," Harriet said, hugging her back as hard as she could. Crookshanks purred and nuzzled her jaw.

Over Hermione's shoulder, she could see Daniel with Hermione's trunk propped against his leg and Jean with baby Hugh in her arms. He was chewing on the toy dragon that Mrs. Weasley had knitted for him, and which he'd never let go of since it was first given to him.

"Hello, dear," said Jean, giving Harriet a second one-armed hug. Daniel shook her hand, smiling. Harriet tried not to let her guilt destroy all her manners.

"Harriet?" Mrs. Weasley's harassed voice called over the crowd as the train's whistle pierced the air. "Where are you, dear?"

"Bye, kiddo," Harriet said, shaking Hugh's tiny hand. Hermione gave the baby and her parents kisses, while Harriet shoved their luggage onto the train.

Ron appeared, hefting her trunk on the other side. Hermione, her arms full of Crookshanks, couldn't help, but with some swearing and kicking he and Harriet got everything on board. Then it was time for a few last quick hugs and kisses, and they were piling on board as the train gave a final ringing whistle and trundled into motion.

Hermione waved to her parents until the train rounded a bend, pulling the platform out of sight.

It was exhilarating to be all three together again, but also. . . unfamiliar. They were all aware that something had changed, something beyond Hermione's injury. Harriet didn't know if it was the way Ron angled himself toward Hermione, as if he was attuned like a satellite to the way she clutched Crookshanks to her chest and breathed a little too quickly; or if it was the uncertainty of so many things that summer had suspended. Maybe it was simply the length of time since the three of them had been together: it had been Harriet and Ron, or Harriet and Hermione, for half a year. And before the Second Task, there had been a special combination of Hermione-and-Ron, the extent of which Harriet had never quite known, though she'd suspected.

Anyway, things were. . . a bit awkward, and a bit more serious than that.

"Shall we find a carriage, then?" she asked.

"Hermione and I have got to go to the Prefects' meeting," Ron said, with a slightly guilty shuffle of his feet.

"Oh," Harriet said. "Right."

"We'll come find you w-once it's over." Hermione was still whispering. Harriet wasn't sure if it was nerves or Hermione's newest way of dealing with her speech difficulties.

"'Course." She gave Hermione another hug - Hermione's Crookshanks-free hand clutched at her jumper - and then watched Ron haul up Hermione's trunk with his and tow them away.

Harriet wandered the train, treating herself to more staring (I would've thought they'd have found something more interesting to gossip about over the summer, she thought irritably) until she came to an empty compartment. Except it wasn't empty; a single blonde girl sat inside reading a newspaper upside down.

For a second Harriet thought it was Asteria, and her heart leapt guiltily - but when she pushed open the door, the face turning to look at her definitely wasn't Asteria's. The blonde hair and blue eyes sounded the same on paper, but were quite different. While Asteria's eyes were large and sort of melting, this girl's were slightly protuberant.

"Oh, sorry," Harriet said, "I thought you were someone I knew."

"No, I'm quite someone else," said the girl seriously, almost gravely. "I know who you are, of course. But I'd believe I would remember if you knew me."

". . . Reckon you're right. Mind if I have a seat?" Harriet didn't fancy trooping up and down the train, hauling Hedwig and her trunk from one end to the other a second time.

"Please do. I'm Luna," said the girl. She watched Harriet stow her trunk with a sort of detached scrutiny that was almost unnerving. "Some people call me 'Loony.'"

"Your friends?" Harriet asked, somewhat taken aback.

"No, I shouldn't think so," said Luna, as if giving it serious thought. "I think they mean it to be rude."

Harriet didn't know what to say to such a serene assessment of minor cruelty. "I'll just call you 'Luna,' then, if that's all right," she said at last.

"Oh, yes, that's fine with me." Luna gave her a dreamy sort of smile. Then she picked up her newspaper (still upside down) and started reading it without another word. Harriet didn't find this particularly bothersome; small talk wasn't her forte, and she couldn't have candidly answer any questions about her summer.

She considered leaving her things and wandering the train in search of Asteria, but hesitated. On the walk to King's Cross she'd had time to think, and now she struggled with knowing Sirius was right and hating it anyway. Didn't Asteria and Malfoy have a right to remember what they'd been through?

But perhaps if she hadn't tagged along, Snape would have been able to rescue them without having to hide Sirius and Harriet's involvement in order to protect his position. Maybe Asteria and Malfoy would've been able to keep their memories then.

And perhaps something worse would have happened, she thought. There's no knowing. You made your decision and that's that.

But she still carried that lump of guilt around. And how was she supposed to act around Malfoy and Asteria now? Well, Asteria more than Malfoy - she'd avoid him as much as she could, the way she'd always done. That bloody business on Valentine's Day, when they'd found Karkaroff dead, hadn't brought them any closer together; their summer adventure wouldn't either, especially if he couldn't remember it.

She leaned her head against the back of her seat and watched London ebb into the countryside as they headed north.

Although he was back in familiar places, Draco felt unfamiliar. It was as if he'd changed while everything else hadn't, like he didn't quite fit anymore. He didn't appreciate the feeling at all.

For instance, he was sitting in the Prefects car waiting for the train to get underway and the meeting to start. He should have been pleased with the prospect of having extra power to lord over people, and dimly he still felt he ought to make something of it; but the uppermost layer of his mind, where thoughts were most intense, was wondering what the point of everything was. More troubling even than that, too, was the sudden intrusion of thoughts that he knew didn't matter, such as whether Asteria had ever finished her painting of the lake. Who cared about paintings, even at the best of times?

His father had been very vague last night about everything. They'd had dinner in the restaurant of The Golden Lyre, where Weasley couldn't have even afforded a single spoon, and Father had made a lot of grand statements that Draco couldn't really follow, about destiny and duty.

"Make yourself useful to the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," he'd said. "Indispensable. Tell me why."

"Power confers power," Draco recited.

Father nodded and poured Draco a small measure of golden wine. "Never neglect that lesson, Draco."

Draco had sipped his wine and wondered where Potter fit into all that. He knew better than to ask. Talking about Potter wouldn't be cheeky; it would be. . . dangerous. His father was dancing around something that made Draco feel like his chest had been Transfigured into a block of ice. Something to do with Draco's summer-long trip to his cousins', with his mother's silence, his father's odd behavior. . .

Potter was the enemy. She was as much a champion of Mudbloods and blood traitors as Albus Dumbledore. But last February, Snape had told him that Potter had faced the Dark Lord three times. And she was still alive.

Something dug into his side, jerking him right out of the memory. He was sure he'd lifted bodily off the seat before he realized the pointy thing lodged in his ribs was only Pansy's elbow.

"It's the Mudblood and the Weasel," she hissed.

Everyone was staring as they entered the compartment. Granger sat down in such a way that Weasley partially blocked her from view. She was carrying a cat, of all things. It was hideous and enormous and sat curled up on her lap like a sentry.

"Too bad she didn't pop off," Pansy muttered in his ear. "Would have rid us of one more Mudblood. One of the worst."

The Head Boy and Girl, some insignificant Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, called the meeting to order. Draco didn't pay attention. They weren't important. According to his father, Dolores Umbridge, the new professor, was the only power that mattered. He was more interested in watching Granger and the Weasel. The Weasel looked protective, a lot like the cat; they even had similarly colored fur - hair. Normally he was gormless and unconcerned; now, he was meeting the eyes of the staring Prefects with the same kind of unblinking challenge as the cat on Granger's lap. And Granger. . .

Draco had never seen her not making an obnoxious nuisance of herself. But today she was quiet and tense and merely taking notes. Every now and then she'd stop and shake out her hand, like it was cramping, then get back to writing.

"Why doesn't she use a Dicta-spell?" Pansy whispered. "Stupid Mudblood. . ."

Nobody knew what had happened to Granger. Dumbledore had announced that there had been an accident and that Potter had been involved, but exactly what the accident had been was unclear. But Granger had been sent up to St. Mungo's in February and hadn't come back till now.

Draco remembered the darkness and the dust below ground, the feeling of wondering if he'd ever be found, the pain and hunger that went on for days, the taste of decay between his teeth. . .

A weird shiver passed through him, like some thread, as delicate as a spider's web, had just trailed from him to Granger, or from Granger to him.

He didn't like it one bit.

Weasley met his eye, and the challenging look hardened.

Draco sneered and looked away. Through his reflection traced across the glass, he watched the countryside flash by.

Harriet tied off the end of Hermione's plait, wishing it didn't look so wonky. "I think I pulled it too much to one side, sorry."

"It looks. . . fine," Hermione said, touching it. She smiled to show that her hesitation hadn't been about her odd plaint but from her words not working properly.

"Looks good to me," Ron said.

Hermione had a little smile to one side of her mouth as she pretended to examine her hair in the compact mirror. There was something private about that smile, so Harriet stood to stash the brush and give her time to straighten her expression.

"Looks like we're coming into Hogsmeade station," she said, glancing out the window at the lanterns outlining the distant platform in the gloom. Sure enough, the train was dropping speed, and in the corridor noise swelled as people threw open doors and rattled around.

Luna drifted out of the compartment ahead of them; Harriet and Ron, pretending to hunt around for things they'd supposedly dropped during the ride, were really waiting until the hubbub had died down to make it easier for Hermione. Finally, when the corridor had mostly emptied, they decanted themselves onto the platform. Hermione was holding Crookshanks right across her chest, making Harriet think of a shield. Her lips were pressed together into a tight, straight line, and her eyes were turned toward the castle. Its lights glittered on her irises, and perhaps it was that which made her expression so hard to read.

Harriet put an arm behind her back, steadying her. When Hermione met her gaze, Harriet thought there weren't just lights making her eyes so bright.

"First years this way!" called a voice that was definitely not Hagrid's. It was Professor Grubbly-Plank, who'd sometimes took over his classes before, holding a lantern to guide the first-years toward her.

"Where's Hagrid?" Hermione asked Harriet, voice hushed.

"We - heard," she said, exchanging a look with Ron, "that he'd gone to do something for Dumbledore this summer. . . but other than that we don't know-"

"I don't think it's a very nice night for walking," said Luna, materializing so suddenly out of the thinning crowd that they all jumped.

"What?" Ron asked, as bewildered as the rest of them.

Luna turned her large, pale eyes his way, making him edge back a bit. "The carriages will be leaving soon," she said complacently. "We don't want to miss them. I think it will rain."

The air did feel thick and heavy, with a bite of cold that hinted of storms, and the only light in the darkness shone from the lanterns on the platform or from the train's windows. They grabbed their trunks and made for one of the last carriages standing.

Those weird horse things were still there.

One turned its skeletal black head, following Harriet with a milky eye. She'd completely forgotten about them. The end of last term hung in her memory like a fog, but now she remembered seeing them, and Ron asking, What horses?

She put out her free hand, hovering her palm in front of its leathery nose. Its thin, wide nostrils flared, and it stretched its gleaming black head toward her -

"Harriet?" asked Hermione, leaning out of the carriage.

Harriet pulled her hand back and hauled herself up next to Hermione, shutting the door with a snap.

Severus watched the children pour into the Great Hall, though not from any pleasure in seeing the little rotters. He was waiting for a particular one.

And there she was - with Granger of course. Weasley's fox-colored hair bobbed around them, a match for the enormous cat in Granger's arms. She stopped, addressed some remark to Harriet, and then fought against the tide of student bodies until she'd disappeared into the Entrance Hall again. When she returned, her arms were empty. She took Harriet's arm and was towed in her wake to the Gryffindor table, Weasley forming a one-man honor guard behind. Students pressed and squashed themselves out of Harriet's way, as if she was projecting a magical field around her. There was a kind of blazing look in her eye, a way of carrying herself, like she'd walk through you if you didn't get out of her way.

"How is Miss Granger?" Flitwick was asking Pomfrey.

"Pleased to see she's up under her own steam," Sprout put in.

"Her progress has been considerable," Pomfrey replied. "Not as much as she wants, but as much as can be expected. She's very determined. She'll be having her familiar with her this term - you all received the memo, yes?"

Murmurs of assent. Pomfrey said, "I'll be instructing her on how to use it in a Healing capacity, but for your separate subjects, you all should have greater insights - "

Wouldn't Granger enjoy that, Severus thought: extra instruction from him. He might permit Harriet to tag along. To keep an eye on her, naturally.

Pomfrey was talking to him, trying to get his attention by laying her hand on the table next to his.

"Have you met her, Severus?"

For a second he thought she meant Harriet, Granger, or possibly even the enormous orange cat. Then his brain shuffled over the part of the conversation he'd tuned out: they'd been gossiping about the new Defense professor.

"I've been busy all day," he said. After waking up from a dreamless sleep, he'd smoked and drunk coffee and thrown himself into a difficult project to erase the hours.

"You're in for a treat, then," murmured Sprout. "When Minerva joins us, that is."

"Ah," said Flitwick, straightening a spoon that didn't need it. "Best behavior, now."

Indeed, there Dumbledore came through the side door, escorting a woman who looked like the unfortunate victim of a botched Transfigurations spell, as if Longbottom had incorrectly Transfigured his toad. It wasn't just that she was short and squat with bulbous eyes and a wide mouth, or that the black bow in her curly hair looked rather like a resting fly; it was the look in her eye - not stupid, exactly, but not quite clever either. It was a sort of intelligence with a very specific purpose. In a word, it was malevolence.

Flitwick straightened his knife.

Severus had known all kinds of nasty people in his life. He was one himself, so you could in fact say he'd known a nasty person his entire life. But he didn't need any self-knowledge to know that this woman was going to be trouble.

Dumbledore held out a chair for her at the end of the table. Sitting, she was hardly shorter than standing. As he went to his own chair, Dumbledore touched Severus fleetingly on the shoulder.

Severus met the headmaster's eye as he tucked himself into his chair. Well, the last four Defense professors had tried to kill Harriet.

He glanced at the toad woman, whose eye had turned toward the Gryffindor table.

If that was the game she wanted to play, Severus would be her opponent with pleasure.

He'd killed the last Defense professor, after all.

After the Welcoming Feast, in the mass chaos of the children moving off to their dorms and whatever pestilential business they'd get up to there, Severus slithered away from the staff table to corner two of them in particular.

"Miss Granger," he said coldly, looming out of a conveniently placed shadow.

Granger gave a start like Longbottom in Potions class. Harriet turned and folded her arms at him with a frown he could only label "disapproving." Behind them, Weasley did a fair impression of looming himself.

A sense of loss, almost sadness, darted through Severus quite uncharacteristically; they were moving out of childhood, but it wouldn't be the same for them as for countless other children he'd watched grow up (with desperate relief in those cases, glad to soon be rid of them). This generation's growing-up would be far quicker and more violent. Especially for these three.

"We must discuss your changes this term," he said, putting a sneer on it for the show of things. "Miss Potter, you may accompany her. Weasley, move along."

"I - sir, my p-refect duties," Granger stammered.

"I have cleared it with your Head of House." He'd done no such thing, but he'd get to it eventually. He'd also be able to weasel out of the staff meeting and thus having to listen to Umbridge; Dumbledore wouldn't be thrilled, but he'd permit it. He'd have to. "Weasley, you do have Prefect duties. See to them."

Potter made a 'go on, it's all right' gesture at Weasley as Severus turned away. At the head of the stairs, Granger's monstrous orange cat slipped out of the shadows and jumped up into her arms.

He escorted the girls-plus-cat down to his office and pointed them in. Harriet sat and Granger followed her lead. Taking his station behind his desk he surveyed them in cold silence, a tactic he always employed to make students nervous.

Granger clutched her cat. Severus got the sense from the cat's unblinking yellow eyes and gently lashing tail that if anyone tried anything on Granger, they'd find themselves with a face full of small tiger. You'll be the first, it seemed to say.

"This is Crookshanks, by the way," said Harriet, falsely casual.

Granger shot her a look of incredulous panic. Harriet seemed to realize that treating Severus the way she always did in private wouldn't be good for her friend's heart, because she hurried on:

"Is this about the familiar stuff Hermione's going to be learning?"

"In part," said Severus. "There are also your own lessons. You will accompany Miss Granger and we shall split the difference."

"A two-for-one deal?" said Harriet; Granger sent her the most pleading scolding look he'd ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

"I assume from Miss Granger's lack of surprise," he said, with a pointed stare for Harriet, "that she is aware of the nature of your lessons."

"Hermione's trustworthy," Harriet said, with a pointed stare of her own.

(Granger made a noise that might have been a moan of horror.)

"For that matter," he said, ignoring her, "you ought to accompany Miss Granger to all her extra lessons, not only mine. It will raise less suspicion that way."

Harriet frowned but nodded.

"I will notify you of the appropriate time. The lessons will of course need to coordinate with your other subjects. In the meantime," he fished a fat green book out of his desk and pushed it toward Granger, "read this - thoroughly."

Harriet's expression said he didn't need to tell Granger to be thorough, but she'd apparently decided to give her friend's nerves a break. She confined herself instead to a bold half-glare while Granger flipped through the book (Familiar-Based Spellcasting: Theoretical Principles and Practical Applications) and her cat sniffed the spine.

"Thank you, P-rofessor," Granger said. Her voice was very soft, almost small. It was the first time she'd spoken since entering the room, and in a flash of insight he wondered if Harriet's impertinence was a tactic to distract and even shield her. Harriet was acting differently - more for show than from her usual blunt honesty and transparent candor.

She met his eye with a sort of 'oh yeah?' look. At the same time, he felt a funny twinge somewhere at the bottom of his ribcage.

Granger glanced between them uncertainly, reminding Severus that even if her motor skills were impaired, her cognitive abilities weren't.

"Keep an eye on our new. . . professor," he said.

"Huh? Why?" Harriet asked.

"I'm sure Miss Granger already noticed the danger," he said smoothly; they both looked surprised. "If that inspiring little speech of hers escaped you - she is a Ministry plant."

"Why would they care?" Harriet asked, looking honestly bewildered. Granger appeared to know exactly what but probably doubted her ability to get anything out.

"Have you forgotten that you were abducted off the street? Your lovely kidnappers wanted to know if the Dark Lord had returned. Where do you think they got that idea? The Headmaster has been making people nervous for the past six months. Fudge is convinced he's trying to destabilize him. Our Minister had previously confined himself to defaming newspaper articles, but now he's stepped things up. Umbridge isn't here to merely keep an eye on us; she's here to interfere. With the Headmaster and with you," he added, in case he hadn't been clear enough, because he'd forgotten to bring his flashing banner with footnotes.

Harriet looked to Granger, seeking confirmation there. When Granger nodded, Harriet turned thoughtful.

"Lie low, if you're capable of it," Severus said. "You may go."

Harriet opened her mouth, but Granger seized her sleeve and said, "Thank y-you, Professor, have a good-"

Her throat worked, but nothing came out. A look of frustration bordering on anguish crossed her face.

"Good night," Harriet said quickly, with a stare that dared him to comment, the same way a sharp sword might dare him.

Granger, her cat under one arm, her other hand clamped on Harriet's elbow, dragged her out the door. It shut behind them, leaving him with the silence in the dark.

He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes, feeling far too old and tired.

"I can't believe-you!" Hermione squeaked.

Crookshanks swaggered in front, tail held high. The halls were empty by now, everyone else having shuffled off to their dorms. The torches sketched streaks of light across the deep shadows, flaring on Crookshanks' flame-colored fur as he padded ahead.

"I talk to him like that all the time." Harriet meant to be soothing before realizing that admitting to constant snipe-sessions with a teacher, especially Snape, would not be information calculated to make Hermione feel any better.

"I know, I only - can't believe he puts up with it."

Harriet had some ideas about that, but she wasn't going to air them. She hadn't told Hermione what Snape had shared last February. She hadn't told anyone, and she didn't intend to. Ever.

"So do you really think that he's not being paranoi-"

"Hem hem."

Hermione gripped Harriet's arm as a shape loomed out of the shadows for the second time - but unlike Snape, with his scimitar nose and gaunt planes, this shape was round with gleaming eyes. As the torch-light revealed the squat form of the new Defense professor, Harriet didn't feel exactly relieved. And not just because Snape had warned them about her.

"It is past curfew," she said. Her voice was sweet, but sweet like that horrible perfume Lavender liked; particularly that one time when Harriet had accidentally smashed the bottle and soaked the carpet.

"Y-yes, Professor." Hermione clutched Snape's book like it was Crookshanks, who wound between Harriet's feet. "We were just-"

"Professor Snape needed to talk to us," Harriet said when Hermione's words ran out.

The professor's eyes gleamed. Umbridge - that was her name; Harriet remember now - asked, "Oh yes? And has he given you a note?"

"I would think the word of a Hogwarts Prefect would be enough," said Snape's icy voice.

Both Harriet and Hermione jumped that time. Snape oiled out of the shadows, one of his trademark sneers on his face. Not for the first time, it struck Harriet that he ought to look like a cartoon villain - beaky nose, glittering eyes, stringy hair, always draped in black. Instead, he looked like a bloke who'd shown up to a casting call for the Grim Reaper and been told he would frighten the audience too much.

"Professor Snape." Umbridge's face was hard to read in the knitted shadows, but her voice was still ever-so-sweet. "You were not present at the staff meeting."

"I'm glad you have a firm grasp of the obvious," Snape said. (Hermione made a quiet choking noise. Harriet wanted to laugh but also felt indignant: he'd told them to lie low, only to turn right around and bait the Ministry plant himself.) "Miss Granger, Miss Potter - do stop cluttering up the hall and return to your tower."

Without a word, Harriet towed Hermione off. Crookshanks jumped up onto Harriet's shoulder - she staggered a bit under his weight - and watched the adults over her back, tail lashing in her face, as she hustled Hermione around the corner and out of sight.

"You two," Hermione moaned, hauling Crookshanks off Harriet.

Harriet had to work not to let herself smile.

Outside the Fat Lady, Hermione whispered, "Harriet. . . wait."

Obediently she stopped. Hermione's expression on the Hogsmeade platform had hovered between determination and fear. Right now, it was much closer to the latter.

Harriet reached out and stroked her hand down Crookshanks' fur. He purred, closing his eyes and butting into her hand.

Some of the rigidity left Hermione. For a moment she pressed her forehead against Harriet's hair. Then she straightened, chin held high, and said, "I-indefatigable."

The Fat Lady swung outward, and they climbed into the portrait hole.

At their appearance the common room fell silent - and then erupted in noise.

Hermione leapt backwards, crushing Harriet's foot, but Harriet, gripping her shoulders to steady her, realized the din was - applause.

And then she saw, above the fireplace, a huge banner, with tumbling sketches of an orange cat that was probably supposed to be Crookshanks:

'Welcome back, Hermione!'

She pointed. Hermione's eyes roved across it and her lip trembled.

She burst into tears.

"Oh, Hermione." Angelina emerged from the gathering crowd and pulled her into a gentle hug, while Hermione sobbed on her shoulder. "It's so good to have you back."

A/N: beta-read by the lovely sageandginger.

after all this time, what can i say that i haven't said before? perhaps nothing, but i can always repeat my endless gratitude and love for you all.